Cat
by DuchessOfDementia
Summary: She was not Arya any more; she was Cat, the greatest duellist in Braavos. But he was still Gendry. That had not changed.
1. Cat of the Canals

It was four years now since she'd been forced from the Temple of the Red God. Four years since the man had given her that horrible task of killing an infant girl, and four years since she refused.

"_Valar Morghulis_," had been the old man's pitiless reply.

She had stalked the girl, observed her. The babe lived in a brothel, the child of some beautiful black-eyed courtesan. It was clear her mother was no Black Pearl, but she was lovely nonetheless. All of the whores coddled the child, singing into her cradle and begging the mother to hold her. They _loved_ that baby.

The girl was a mewling, pink-faced thing, plump and healthy; a blessing. Many babies in Braavos born to peasants were too thin, sickly, or simply born dead. A baby with good health was rare indeed.

And someone had wanted that pretty, giggling infant dead. Cat wondered if it was because of who the father is, remembering when Cersei demanded that all of Robert's bastards be put to death. It was not the first time the Faceless had been called upon to remove an inconvenient bastard; she had once donned the face of a pretty, flaxen-haired girl and slipped into a mercenary hall during a celebratory feast so she could soundlessly pour Strangler into the wine of a bastard sellsword boy.

But this was different. The youngest she had ever killed was a boy of two-and-ten, the son of a powerful banker. Somewhere in her mind she thought that perhaps that wasn't right—she vaguely remembered a stable boy, plump and pock-marked—but she ignored it. That was one of the forbidden memories, the ones she was not allowed to think on.

_I cannot kill a mewling baby_, Cat had thought. _I will not_.

The old man gave her three days to decide. When she came to him at the end of her allotted time, stiff with refusal, he took her into the bottom rooms of the temple and made her remove her face. He did not make her take the gift, however, and she wondered if it was because it was not necessary, or if perhaps he truly _was_partial to her the way his kindly, wrinkled smile suggested.

So she became Cat of the Canals again. She stole when she could, usually only a little, and fought with bravos in dark alleys. Sometimes she came down to the docks like she had as a child, laughing with Tagganaro and barking little Casso and Cossomo and Merry and even Quill. Lanna and she had become something like friends, given their closeness in age, though they were quite opposite. Where Lanna was tall and fair and plump and sultry, Cat was small and dark and slim and hard. The men liked her well enough, and Quill still had not stopped trying to get her to kiss him, but she was not about to put both her feet into the world of the whorehouse. Drinking with the patrons and Lanna and learning new tricks from them was one thing, but when Merry offered her a job, she flatly refused.

Her fame as a duellist had grown considerably in the four years since her face was returned to her. Cat found she did not mind; it gave her a rush of sweet pride when grown men stumbled away from her in fear once they knew who she was.

"Cat of the Canals, the lethal beauty of Braavos," Tagganaro had once said. "That's what they're calling you, I hear. The pale-faced siren with a thirst for blood."

Cat did not know if she yet considered herself a 'beauty', but as for the rest of her reputation, she liked it. She enjoyed her life as Cat. She lived comfortably in her apartments, she was feared and respected by men and women alike, and her days and nights were full of all the adventure she had craved as a child. She drank mead and ale and bitter Braavosi wine with sailors. She swam in the ocean and learned to properly fish, catching a massive ray once. She ran laughing with Lanna through inky alleys, the rush of the canals soothing them like music. She even took a lover once, a gold-haired boy with black eyes and a crooked smile called Forenzo. He was a strapping young sailor, seven-and-ten to match her five-and-ten years at the time, and he used to sneak her aboard the ship where he worked and show her how to tie knots and climb the mast. Once she had let him kiss her dizzy, sliding down her breeches in the dark of the ship's deck and whispering to her in Braavosi, and she lost her maidenhead under the full moon.

Cat had more freedom than No One did. She was allowed to remember her life before Braavos. She was allowed to remember Nan and Weasel and Arry, the skinny boy with hacked hair. And before that, she remembered Arya, the wilful little idiot child who, at the end of her life, had nothing. She remembered a red-haired beauty always teasing her for being ugly and unladylike. She remembered a tall, dark boy, four-and-ten in years, gifting her with her first sword. She remembered a good man losing his head at the Sept of Baelor. And she remembered a bastard boy with a helm in the shape of a bull.

It was strange to her that the bastard boy was the one she remembered best. He had been the last person she loved in her old lives, the last one to leave her. She did not remember how old he had been, only that he had been older than she, and she was now seven-and-ten. Sometimes she would listen when her friends at the Happy Port spoke of the news in the West. The Iron Throne had been taken years ago by the last two Targaryens, aunt and nephew, who had apparently awoken three dragons from stone. The North was ruled by a crippled young lord who had only been allowed independence by promising his sister to the Targaryen prince. The infamous Imp of Lannister was the Queen's Hand, and the shamed queen Cersei was in exile.

Cat wondered sometimes if they remembered her. She had been a child then, half as old as she was now, but a part of their world nonetheless. She wondered if her cripple brother or her princess sister ever thought of little Underfoot when they waited for sleep. She wondered if, in her exile, Cersei's mind ever drifted to the savage little girl who escaped her. She wondered if the bastard boy with the bull's head helmet missed her.

Months later, she hears the news that makes her heart cold. The queen, her nephew, and his wife, along with a court retinue, were coming to Braavos to speak with the Sealord about debts due to the Iron Bank. Cat had half-considered not attending the parade greeting them, but had not been able to resist sliding from her apartment window to the sandy roof below. She watched, high enough that her view was unobstructed, as two-hundred men marched through the crooked street, split into two groups as the canal divided them. The banners were bloody Targaryen red.

It was many minutes before the royal family came into view. Trumpets sounded noisily around, making Cat's head light, and her neighbours were all throwing petals and shreds of lace and silk on their heads. The queen, sitting atop sequins and silk in her litter, was as lovely as they said; her silver hair fell to her waist, her skin a milky cream. She was dressed in a splendid violet that Cat was certain would match her Targaryen eyes, though she could not see from where she stood.

Behind the queen, a second litter floated through the shouting crowd. The Targaryen prince was as beautiful as his aunt, all silver-headed and regal, as he smiled at the Braavosi smallfolk. Beside him sat an unspeakably beautiful auburn-headed woman dressed in the fairest gown Cat had ever seen. Her stomach swelled beneath the bust of it. Her smile was more demure than her husband's, her high cheekbones casing shadows across it. Cat had to swallow the urge to cry as the litter passed her. The auburn princess did not see her.

The Queensguard was behind them, a small retinue of tall, broad men in white-gold armour. They had left their helmets off, undoubtedly to stave off the thick Braavosi heat, and Cat looked curiously from face to face. Many of them had the darkened skin and long braids of Dothraki. Cat watched them meander by, only feeling her heart seize up again when her eyes found a shock of coal-black hair.

She could not move away, or stop looking. He was smiling shyly, as if he both loved and hated the way the smallfolk stared in awe and respect. Cat merely stood there, at her full height of five-foot-and-three, and watched. As if he could feel her, as if he knew her eyes were burning into his skull, he turned his head up and they locked eyes.

He stopped in the middle of his march and stared. His face could only be described as a mask of purest shock. His blue eyes, as ocean-bright as she remembered, were the widest she'd ever seen a person make their eyes. The men behind him were running into his back and shouting, but still he did not move. Without thinking of it, Cat raised a hand in feeble greeting, smiling lamely as if she were saying _hello_ to a casual friend.

The other members of the Queensguard kept trying to get him to move ahead, but he struggled against them, shouting and pointing to her, trying to fight his way from the retinue. Cat ducked away, climbing back in through her window, but not before hearing the shout of _"ARYA!"_

_xxx_

Originally posted on my tumblr as a oneshot, I've decided to convert this into a WIP. Yeah, yeah, I know, I've got two more in the works. But this plot bunny was eating me alive. Plus, I adore Braavos. Far. Too. Much.


	2. Finding Arya

So, I tried to be creative and sort of invent some Braavosi here. It's mostly influenced by the romance languages, but instead of committing to one, I decided to have some fun with it and borrow from a bunch. Also some of it is...well, just made up, really.

xxx

Cat awoke the next morning to vicious pounding on her door.

Stirring slowly, having slept poorly the night before, she rose from her humble bed and moved towards the sound. _Probably Brusco_, she thought, _come to ask if I'll help him on the docks today. _The gruff old man had never been gentle about anything, not even when asking for favours. It was not until she heard the voice of her visitor, and the words they spoke, that she paused.

"_Arya Stark_!" came the muffled shout from behind the door. It was not a voice she recognised, but it was strong and firmly Westerosi. "Arya Stark, we have orders from the Queen of Westeros to bring you to her."

Cat did not stand around to ponder this. Turning heel and dashing for the window (_quickasasnake,quickasasnake) _she climbed through, dropping to the roof below where she'd watched the parade. She crouched as she moved across it, making for the next roof, and spied three members of the Queensguard at the bottom of the building, by the door. _He_ was among them. She spared herself only the briefest moment to look at him, to _really_ look at him, since none of him was obscured by a crowd now. He was tall, so tall she thought she would have to look straight up to speak to him if they were standing face-to-face. A dark beard was growing around his face, but it was not too thick; it was a young man's beard.

Then she ran. Jumping to her neighbour's flat roof, she kept running, kept jumping, feeling the morning sun on her neck, until the flat roofs ended. She was near the docks, now. Sliding off the building top and into a large hay cart below, she sprang up again and kept running, swatting straw from her hair as she did. She ran until she could see the Happy Port, still loud with raucous laughter.

By the time Cat pushed the door open and stood inside the dim little whorehouse, she was panting. Merry was at the counter, scrubbing. She fixed her with a look.

"_Exciting night, sweet one?"_ she asked in fluid Braavosi. Cat waved her question away and moved to sit in the vacant stool by the older woman. The tavern floor was nearly empty save for some sailors who were good and drunk and had probably not left their seats since the sun went down.

"_Someone is chasing you?" _Merry asked. She spoke the Common Tongue, but had taken to only speaking Braavosi with Cat now. Cat knew the language as well as her native one.

"_Someone is always chasing me,"_ Cat answered with a wry smile as she reached over and plucked a piece of bread crust from a discarded plate.

"_I know it," _Merry said, smiling as well. _"I still remember when you came here, a Western orphan girl. I remember when you sold clams on the docks. You were running from someone then, too."_

Cat chewed the crust and did not reply. She had not been _running_ then. She'd been _searching_. If only she'd known what Jaqen's coin had truly meant when she was one-and-ten, perhaps she would have been able to live as Cat for those two years. Those two, bleak years when she killed and killed.

"_It is the queen," _Cat murmured back. _"The Westerosi dragon queen."_

Merry frowned. _"Have you offended her?"_

It was a fair question, Cat thought, considering she offended _so many_ people in Braavos with her sword and her mockery and her smirk. But no. _He_ had seen her. Shouted _that_ name. Probably told the auburn girl from her past, who'd probably told the queen. She was highborn in her past life; she should've known to duck away from him, to hide. She didn't want all the pain and horror of Westeros finding her and dragging her back again.

"_No," _Cat said resolutely. _"Not the queen. But in Westeros they know me."_

Merry nodded sombrely. _"You are from Westeros. I know that. You are whiter than any other girl in Braavos, and you could not speak anything but the Common Tongue when you came here. Who were you? You told me before you were an orphan of King's Landing."_

"_I am an orphan," _Cat replied. It was true; she had neither father nor mother. _"And King's Landing is the last place I lived." _She chose not to count Harrenhal or the forests of the Riverlands or Acorn Hall as places in which she 'lived'. _"But I was someone before that. Someone I never wanted to be."_

Merry nodded. _"Do they seek to take you away from here?"_

Cat shrugged. _"Perhaps. There is a man in the Queensguard. He knew me once, and he saw me at the parade. He recognised me and he called me by a name."_

"_Your true name?"_

Cat froze. _"Cat_ is_ my true name."_

"_No. It isn't."_

Cat stiffened at that. _"I am Cat and Cat is me. I refuse to be anyone else."_

"_But that does not mean you were not someone else before," _Merry answered smoothly as she scrubbed the inside of a tankard, her huge teats getting in the way. _"This boy, how do you know him? Was he your lover?"_

Cat did not know why that question made her shift in her seat. _"I was...one-and-ten when I came to Braavos." _It was always difficult translating years; the Braavosi counted time differently. _Too young to have ever had a lover."_

"_Some girls still do," _Merry said knowingly. _"And you had that look about you; the look of a girl who already knew love's bite."_

Cat scowled. _"I never loved him. He was only an idiot bastard boy." _She had later come to recognise his resemblance to Renly Baratheon, to King Robert himself; where, as a child, she had not noticed it, it had become plain to her in later years. He was one of Robert's many bastards, he had to be. Everyone always told him he had the Baratheon look, and Cat was certain of his blood now. He _told_ her he was a bastard when they were still with Yoren, so it made sense. She did not know why she was remembering all this now.

"_You said he was with the queen. Not such a useless bastard boy after all."_

Cat frowned; she was beaten. Merry had an annoying habit of doing that. _"He has gotten the rest of the guard to look for me. He means to take me back into that world."_

"_Was it such a bad world, sweet?"_

Cat chilled to think of it. _"The worst there is," _she answered, stumbling a bit over the harder consonants in her emotion. Even thinking of her homeland was enough to make her new Braavosi tongue trip. _"Full of murder and pain. No one was happy. Not the lords _or_ the smallfolk. They all killed everyone they pleased. I wanted to die before I came here."_

"_I know of the war," _Merry said soberly. _"Did they take your loved ones, Cat of the Canals?" _Merry said her alias in Braavosi instead of in the Common Tongue, like she usually did. _Cata di Canale. _It made it seem less like a true name, and more like a string of words that could be bent and changed.

"_Yes," _she said quietly, thinking of the rush of faces she dimly remembered. The head rolling down the steps of the Great Sept. The auburn girl fainting in grief and horror. Yoren (she could remember his name, it was bearable, it didn't hurt as much as the rest) falling into a puddle of mud, splashing grotesquely. The dyer's apprentice being stabbed through the neck. The kraken traitor, who spat in the face of her family's love and stole their home. The Bolton boy, who burned it down. The bastard boy kneeling before the walking dead man, abandoning her. The burned man carrying her away. And the _drums_. _Fire and drums_. _"They took them all."_

"_Except this man."_

"_He did not need to be taken away from me. He left on his own."_

"_Yet he has come to Braavos, and calls for you in the crowd. He sends men after you."_

"_I will never go back," _Cat snapped, and she meant it. _"I will never be fool enough to love something in Westeros ever again. In the West you lose everything that you love. They take from you only because they can."_

Merry fixed her with the saddest look she had ever seen on the woman. Her black eyes were tired, and wrinkles gathered in their corners. Her vellum-coloured Braavosi skin was weathered and aging. She still had something comely about her when she was lively and in good spirits, but now she only looked like a woman growing old.

"_If your wish is to stay and be _Cata, _I will help you. Shall you hide?"_

"_Until they leave Braavos."_

"_Then I will keep you. You will sleep with Lanna."_

Cat smiled into the older woman's face. "Thank you," she said in the Common Tongue. Then again, in Braavosi. _"Tego, _Merry_."_

xxx

Cat slept in Lanna's chamber for the next two nights. She was rarely there; always serving clients until the sun was rising. She slept from sunrise until just before midday. Cat kept much the same hours; she was always at the Port or wandering the streets all night and never returned to her home until dawn. She thought it rather sad, how Lanna came back into the room smelling like men and ale. The older girl would always collapse in her bed and fall asleep within minutes. She was a sound sleeper, no snoring or any of that, and didn't shift in her bed during the night. Cat appreciated that.

When she was still a child, she had resented Lanna for being a whore. She misliked all the attention she got, and the way she ate it up happily. Cat would not come to realise until around two years back that Lanna was not weak; but rather, powerful. She was poor and had no talent for fighting (though Cat had tried to teach her), and so had few roads to travel in order to put food in her belly.

"You could always marry," Cat had said. "Some fisherman or merchant. You're pretty, they'll all want you."

Lanna had wrinkled her nose at that. "And be a slave? Birth his babies and take his name? I'd rather be free, thanks."

Cat realised then that she and Lanna were more alike than she'd ever imagined.

It was the morning after the second night when Cat began to descend the stairs. Then she heard it—a Westerosi voice speaking in the Common Tongue—and she paused mid-step, her eyes widening as she listened.

"...Stark. _Arya_ Stark. The _queen_ is searching for her."

"I do not know this girl," she heard Merry say clumsily. "I have never heard the name Arya." It was true, at least.

"She would be seven-and-ten, grey of eyes, dark of hair. Pale, and Westerosi."

Cat bit her lip as she heard the silence. Merry would undoubtedly be thinking of her; not many girls in Braavos fit that description. Merry already knew the queen was looking for her, but she had never heard Cat's true name. She wondered what Merry could be thinking.

"I know no such girl," Cat heard her coldly reply. "I house only whores, and none of them look that way."

"The girl's neighbours have all pointed us here. They say she comes here regularly. They have told us she lives under the name _Cat. _If you lie, you shall earn the queen's wrath."

Cat stiffened. While she wanted Merry to be safe, she was angry with the statement. She had never even _met_ the queen; it was not the Targaryen who wanted her. It was that auburn princess—that black-haired knight.

"I have never heard of any Cat. Sers, my words are bad—I cannot speak the Common tongue very well," Merry said stiffly, purposefully tripping over the words. Cat felt a rush of affection for the woman.

"Then we will search your whorehouse."

Cat was still.

"You will _not_. You are no men of Braavos; I do not serve your queen. You cannot search this place."

Cat heard the indignant snort of the anonymous knight. "We will return," he said. Cat heard many pairs of noisy, metallic footsteps as they left. The door slammed behind them.

She crept down the stairs to find Merry pinching her brow. The woman slackened when she saw her.

"_I am sorry," _Cat said in rushed Braavosi. _"So sorry."_

"_They want you badly. Do you fear them? Will they hurt you?"_

_Yes, _Cat instantly thought. By making her a noblewoman again they would hurt her. They would dress her and marry her and rob her of her freedom. _"I was noble in Westeros."_

"_I thought so."_

Cat licked her lips. _"What do I do?"_

"_You should see the queen. I am certain that she will let you remain here if you wish."_

Cat shook her head. _"They care _nothing_ for what I wish. They never did."_

"_Not even this queen? This girl-queen, who refuses to take a husband?"_

Cat considered this. She had heard of the dragon queen, but had never thought that mayhaps Daenerys Targaryen would be understanding towards her desire to remain in Braavos, the only place she had found where she was totally free.

"_Perhaps."_

"_Then go to her and see this sorted. I care for you, _Cata, _but I will not have my house looted by Western knights."_

Cat nodded. _"I know."_

"Cata_," _Merry called as Cat had begun to move towards the door. She glanced at the woman over her shoulder.

"_Why did you not tell me who you were?"_

Cat looked at the floor. It was wooden and tarnished, cracked and stained. _"It was safer for us both," _she decided before promptly leaving.

The Queensguard was not difficult to find. They had not moved very far since leaving; all dressed in white-gold armour, gleaming in the midday sun, the three who had been in the Port were clustered around a fisherman now, badgering him with questions. _Futile, _Cat thought. _That man only speaks Braavosi. _She knew from all the times she had purchased trout from him.

"Sers?"

The three of them turned to her. She recognised none of them; the Lannister Kingsguard had not turned their coats to the Targaryens, she guessed. They stared at her.

"I am"—she swallowed, hating the next words to come from her mouth. "I am Arya Stark."

They exchanged looks before deftly reaching for her. She did not resist as one of them took her by each arm and they led her away like some prisoner.

_I _am_ a prisoner, _she thought bitterly. _And I was stupid to have ever believed otherwise._

xxx

She had been in the Sealord's palace only once before, when she was still with the Faceless Men. She'd killed the steward there.

It was as lavish as she remembered; architecture in Braavos was so different and so much more beautiful in Westeros. The columns were all patterned with quatrefoils and filigree, and the floor was a beautiful blue marble.

She kept her head down as the knights brought her into the throne room. She dared not look up yet; she dared not stare into the faces of those who had believed her dead.

"Sers!" Sealord Vicenzo called out in a thick Braavosi accent. He rolled the 'r' like some exotic snake. "Release the girl. She is not a criminal."

She felt their arms leave her and heard them step away. Still she did not look up.

She could hear the Sealord's padded shoes as he approached. "This...cannot be correct," he muttered, his enthusiasm seeming to have left him. "I know this girl. This is _Cata, _a bravo."

"That is _Arya Stark_," she heard a man say. She faintly recognised the voice, but still did not look up. She let her dark, choppy hair hang in front of her face, hiding her.

"No, I have seen her before. She duelled one of my men outside of the Blue Lantern. She is a sword of Braavos. _Cata di Canale _she is called. _Cat of the Canals_."

She finally glanced up, just a bit, through her hair. She saw the Sealord, with his pointy beard, olive skin and fine velvet clothes. Then she saw the queen, surrounded by her Queensguard, radiant and solemn. The man who had earlier insisted she was Arya was the bastard boy. He looked ready to strike something.

"Can you prove this is the girl?"

"She confessed, my lord," one of the knights who had dragged her in said.

"Are you certain she was not merely lying?" the Sealord countered smartly. "To protect her loved ones? Or perhaps simply to pose as a noblewoman? Arya Stark is a fine name to have. Perhaps the girl is only after your gold and your silk."

"That _is_ Arya," the bastard insisted. "I would recognise her anywhere and _that is her_. She has been missing for years. It is your _duty_ to return her to her family."

Cat suddenly wanted to hit him.

She heard dainty footsteps coming towards her. Cat did not turn her head, but saw pale blue slippers and a matching blue skirt approaching through her fringe.

She felt a woman's fingers brush her hair from her eyes and flinched away. When the hair was cleared, however, she saw that the fingers belonged to the auburn girl.

The girl stared into her. Her lips parted, her gaze opening. She breathed a sigh of shock and relief.

"Arya?" she asked in a whisper. "Is it really you? Can this truly be a trick?"

Cat shifted. She had not seen the red beauty face-to-face since they were both children; it was conceivable that she would not recognise her. Suddenly she could not do it; she had lost her nerve. She could not look these people in the face and admit that she has been hiding from them for all these years. So she lied. "_Sono Cata. Non jonno su_." _I am Cat. I do not know you._

The girl did not look puzzled, as Cat had wanted her to. Instead she looked even more overcome. "You have forgotten yourself, haven't you?" She was still whispering. "I did, too. _Arya_." She put her hands around her face, and Cat tried to summon an expression of confusion to better convince the girl.

"Is it you? Tell me. If you ever loved me, for a single moment, tell me the truth."

Cat _had_ loved her; sometimes. The beauty that she had envied and hated but had always secretly loved. "_Dana. Sono Cat_." _No. I am Cat._

The Sealord clapped his hands together. "Your Grace, my lady—I think it is obvious what has happened here. She is a Braavosi who bears striking resemblance to your dead lady. We should surely release her."

"No." Cat looked up and saw that the bastard knight had spoken again, his face hard as he stared at her. "My lord, this _is_ Arya Stark. She belongs to her family and must be returned."

"_Sono Cata!" _she screamed suddenly, backing away from the auburn girl to glare at the bastard. _"Sono Cata o Braavos! Su a tonsocco! Damo i!" I am Cat of Braavos! You are mad! I remain here!_

The Sealord was the only one who regarded her words. "She denies this identity," he said in his impossible accent.

The auburn lady's eyes were full of tears when she approached her this time. "What has the world done to you?" she murmured, reaching for Cat's face again. Cat flinched, not wanting her to touch her. The auburn girl's hand slackened, but she continued to speak. "Speak with _your_ voice. Arya, if that is you; I-I _need_ you. Tell me true. Tell me who you are."

Cat was silent. She dropped her head, saying nothing and ignoring the woman.

She heard a choked little sob, but forced herself to pretend she had not heard it.

"There, my lords. The girl is"—

The Sealord did not finish his sentence. She heard the noise of armour as someone stormed over to her. She did not fight—she would only be punished—when she felt a gloved hand grip her by the chin and wrench her face upwards. She found herself staring into sharp, blue eyes. _The bastard's._

"It is her," he said certainly. "Arya has a little scar, just at her hairline. She got it when I pricked her while sparring." He turned away from her, facing the Sealord. "It _is_ her. She is Westerosi, in _our_ queen's charge. Not yours, my lord."

The Sealord glanced at her again, looking uneasy. Cat was easily the best woman swordsman in Braavos; losing her would mean losing a bit of pride for the city. He wanted her to stay. "Shall we hear the queen's decision, then?" he said. The queen may be, as Merry had suggested, a woman who believed in choice and independence; perhaps she would let Cat go.

Daenerys Targaryen pursed her lips. She looked at the auburn girl, the bastard, and then at Cat.

"Can we prove she is truly Lady Stark?"

Cat instantly hated the queen for calling her that. But she still said nothing.

"As I have said," the bastard piped up. "The scar on her brow."

"No one knows of this scar but you. Is there another way? No one has seen the girl in six years, and she was a child when she supposedly died. We must be sure we are not kidnapping some Braavosi. A scar is not enough evidence if she looks differently than she used to and does not speak the Common Tongue."

The hall was silent.

"She...spoke the Common Tongue to us," said one of the knights who'd seized her. "She _said_ she was Arya Stark after we left the brothel. She sought us out."

"Arya is bold," the auburn girl said, her voice still soft and choked with emotion. "She would do this to protect her friends."

"Perhaps she is an impostor, protecting the true Arya," said the Sealord.

"No!" said the black-haired bastard at once, still staring at Cat. "This _is_ her. _This_ is the girl I saw at the parade. _This is Arya_. I would know her anywhere," he said again, sounding desperate.

"Perhaps we should search the brothel," suggested one knight, a touch of greed in his voice. "She may be hiding there."

"_No_!" Cat called at once. A hundred eyes turned to look at her.

Cat worried her lip with her teeth and heard the auburn princess' intake of breath. She would recognise the habit as something Cat had done as a child, many lifetimes ago.

"So you _do_ speak the Common Tongue?" the Sealord said, sounding disappointed. He fixed her with black eyes, reminding her of Syrio, her old 'dancing' master. "Have you lied to us? Are you truly this Arya Stark?"

Cat felt her eyes stinging with the beginning of tears. That alone disturbed her; she had not cried in years, and the closest she'd come in just as long was when she saw the red-haired girl at the parade—and now. She did not respond to the Sealord's question.

"Speak," said the bastard boy gruffly. "Or we _will_ raid the brothel." Even when his words were threatening, his eyes were kind, imploring. Just as she remembered. They stared at her with an emotional desperation; he _wanted_ her to be real. He _missed_ her.

Cat swallowed her panicked sobs. She had been thinking of Merry and Lanna and everyone she had come to love in Braavos lying dead or raped or both on that scratched wooden floor.

"Yes," she murmured, only for him to hear.

His eyes widened. He gripped her by the shoulders, shaking her. "Say it again. Say it true. _Are you Arya Stark?"_

"_Yes_," she repeated, loud enough for everyone to hear. She heard a collection of gasps as she did. But the bastard was quiet. He kept staring into her.

"Let her go," the auburn girl shouted. "Let _go_ of her, she's my _sister_!"

Cat felt the bastard boy's hands release her as he stepped away, but he did not move far. The auburn princess ran to her, throwing her arms around her as she broke into sobs. Cat only stood there, feeling sobs choke her, too. She could feel the girl's pregnant stomach rub against her own. She did not know whether her sobs were from love of the girl or the abrupt, body-shaking loss of her freedom.

"Arya Stark," Cat heard the Dragon Queen say over her sister's sobs—because that was who this girl was, _Sansa Stark_, her _sister_, the one she had refused to think of for _so long_—as she strolled over to them. The queen stood a good distance away, however, seeming to respect the intimate embrace. Her pale, violet eyes watched them with a queer interest that disturbed Cat. "It is so _wonderful_ to have you returned to us. Your brother is the King of the North, which you may or may not yet know"—she did. Of _course_ she did—"making you a princess. My lady, you are in the charge of your family, now. If you return to Westeros, you will marry a high lord and live comfortably forever, rather than in the _squalor_ of a whorehouse."

Something in the queen's eyes seemed dishonest; Cat had heard the stories, had heard that Daenerys Targaryen lived among the Dothraki, had been poor and in 'squalor' for many years; she wondered if the Dragon Queen had truly found Westerosi royalty as fulfilling as she'd hoped.

Still Cat said nothing, ignoring the queen's proclamation as her sister pressed her forehead to hers, still shaking with joyful sobs. Cat looked at the bastard boy again, who had a hand clapped over his mouth. His eyes were shining, too.

"Arya," Sansa whispered. "Arya, Arya. My _sister_."

Cat felt the wet stripes running down her cheeks, too. She only said one word. _"Sansa."_

xxx

The Queensguard had allowed her one night to say good-bye to her friends in Braavos. She had instantly made for the Port, armed with her rapier and a fat sack of gold.

She found Merry and Lanna sitting together within. They both rose when they saw her, eyes wide with concern.

"_Cata_!" they called in unison. Lanna reached her first, embracing her. When she pulled away, her face was a mask of worry.

"_What happened?" _Lanna asked.

"_They have found me. I must go home with them."_

Lanna gasped brokenly. Her eyes fluttered. _"When?"_

"_In two days' time."_

"_Will you ever return?"_

Cat swallowed. _"No. I do not think so."_

Lanna embraced her again, this time more tightly. Cat let her arms come around her; she had thought of Lanna as an older sister for years now. Where she lost one sister, she gained another, she supposed. But she did not know why it had to be this way. Why could she not have both? Why could she not have _everything_?

"_Have you spoken to the boy?" _Merry asked, her eyes as sad as Lanna's.

Cat broke from her friend to face the woman. _"Not truly. Not alone, anyhow. But he recognised me. He remembered a scar he gave me on my forehead and recognised me."_

Merry gave her a sombre look. _"Is he the one you loved when you came to Braavos?"_

Cat was silent for a moment; she had originally thought to argue Merry, like she usually did, but saw little point in it now. After tonight, she would not see the woman again.

"_I loved him once. I am not certain anymore."_

Merry nodded slowly, her face dropping minutely to the floor. When she looked at Cat again, her eyes shone with tears. _"I will miss you, _Cata_. I have come to love you like a daughter."_

Thoughtlessly, Cat ran from Lanna to throw her arms around Merry behind the counter. She felt the woman squeeze her, pressing a firm kiss into her hair. _"Do not let them hurt you," _Merry murmured. _"Otherwise you will come back to Braavos and find me, girl."_

Cat nodded, her own face pinching with grief. Merry released her and wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

"Go now, Cata," she said in the Common Tongue. "Go and meet your family."

Cat nodded and backed away from the pair of them as she threw her sack of gold onto the floor. Lanna and Merry both looked wide-eyed at her.

"_For my friends," _She said with a sad smile. Then she ran, slipping through and out of the door before they could insist against it.

xxx

Cat was miserable among the Dragon Queen's court.

Between Daenerys' offers of handmaidens and gowns and everyone's royal treatment of her, she was at the end of her tether within hours.

Sansa was the only one who made it bearable. She was so kind and loving towards her, and every time she looked at Cat, she would get this adoring, gentle little smile, as if she'd waited half a lifetime to see her. And Cat supposed she had.

"I don't want to marry," Cat said firmly to her sister one evening at supper. "I _won't_. If you truly want me to return to Westeros, I will, but I'll do it as a free woman."

"Whatever you wish," Sansa had returned warmly, getting that dreamy, loving smile again. Cat returned it weakly.

Sansa had waved away the wineskin when the Sealord's servants brought it around, complaining that wine made her sick now that she was with child. She retired early, leaving Cat alone to drink in the presence of the Dragon Queen's small court retinue. They all stared at her—from her chin-length hair to her tunic to her breeches—as she greedily drank from the wineskin she'd snatched from a serving boy. Cat cared very little for their attention, because she cared very little for _them_. She was only there because it was Sansa's wish, and because there was the promise of seeing Bran and Rickon and _Winterfell_ again.

The bastard boy came and sat beside her once more and more courtiers had retired, including the queen. The prince remained, however, along with half of the Queensguard. She and the bastard were quite alone on their side of the table.

"You have not spoken a word to me this entire time," the bastard murmured to her. When she set her goblet down to look at him, she found his eyes imploring, searching.

"I have no words to speak."

"Why did you come here?" he asked. "Why didn't you come back to _me_, after what happened to your mother and King Robb?"

Cat supposed that he was forgoing subtlety because he was impatient; it made sense. He'd spent six years not knowing her; he probably hoped to make up for that.

"You became a knight," she said, a slight slur in her voice. "_Clearly_ you didn't give a single damn about _me_. And now you're an _honoured_ knight of the Queensguard. So I suppose it all worked out for everyone, didn't it? You got what you wanted, and I got what _I_ wanted. _Freedom_."

When she felt his hand seize her wrist, her instinct was to snatch away, to draw her rapier; but her rapier was gone, stuffed into her trunk upstairs. Now she could only whip around to face him, indignity in her blood.

"You're right," the bastard said. "This _is_ what I wanted. I wanted to be a knight, someone important." He licked his lips. "But not on my own. I wanted _you_ to see me rise. I wanted _you_ to see me gain the lands I have now. I wanted to be your _equal_."

"Haven't you heard?" Cat spat. "I'm the _Princess of Winterfell_. You can _never_ be my equal."

The bastard took a breath. His eyes raged. "You're no princess," he muttered, his grip on her wrist growing tighter as he yanked her closer to him. "You're a selfish child with no mind for anyone but yourself."

"Then why d'you all want me back so badly?" she snapped before grabbing the wineskin with her free hand and turning it onto her lips and skyward again.

The bastard shoved it off her mouth, spilling a bit on her chin. She scowled at him before moving to wipe it with a cloth, but his hand was already there, wiping the red trail from her lips and face.

"We want you back because we love you. Lady Sansa, Bran, Rickon. And _me_."

Cat blinked slowly. "I don't even remember you lot," she said, trying to sound hard. "I don't love you anymore. I don't even care."

"You're lying," he said firmly, keeping his hand at her chin. Cat glanced around and noticed they were quite alone in the hall; Aegon and the remainder of the Queensguard had left. "You're _always_ lying. Come on, say my name. I haven't heard you say it in six years."

She hesitated. She was afraid of what he might hear in her voice if she obeyed.

"_Say_ it," he insisted, his eyes holding in a hundred different things. "I'm _Gendry_. You're _Arya_. Just _say_ it so I know it's real."

She swallowed, looking away. But his grip only tightened, and even though she could've fought him off, she didn't. In her wine-doused state, she found she like his hands and his eyes on her. She would not yet admit to herself why.

"Gendry," she mumbled stupidly. "And _Arya_."

The bastard—_Gendry_—loosed his hand from her wrist and her chin. "That's right," she heard him whisper. She heard his armour scrape as he leaned forward, planting a kiss on the side of her forehead. She turned instantly, finding her face much too close to his. Their noses brushed.

"You'll do well not to forget that again."

And then he stood up, his armour noisy as he did, and walked off, his cape swinging. Cat—no, _Arya_—sat there dumbly, reaching for her wineskin again because it was all she could do.

As she drained the last of it, her brow drawn and her eyes screwed shut, she wondered if waving to him at the parade had been the worst decision of her life, or the best.


	3. The Death of Cata

Arya spent her last day in Braavos in a _palace_.

She still preferred to wear her laced leather garb instead of a gown; and while her clothing scandalised the stuffy Targaryen court, the Sealord was already quite taken with her. He even invited her to join him and the royal family for breakfast, where she'd made a point to tear viciously into all her food and break her bread and chew it as noisily as possible. Aegon and Sealord Vicenzo laughed at that, and Sansa smiled as she daintily ate her own meal, but Daenerys seemed quite unamused.

Arya wondered why the queen seemed to dislike her so much. She decided not to dwell on it, though. She was not doing any of this for the _queen_. Sure, she'd bend the knee and declare herself a Targaryen loyalist if she had to, but she wouldn't mean it. She cared nothing for the new royals beyond two facts: firstly, Daenerys was, at least, better than Cersei. Secondly, Aegon was her sister's husband.

She saw nothing wrong with _him_, though. He was eloquent, handsome and genial, and constantly showered Sansa with kisses and held her hands and brought her forehead to his. He was absolutely taken with her; as any man would be. And as she _deserved_ him to be. Finally, after so many years of dreaming, Sansa was _finally_ a queen. And Arya was happy for it.

Sansa had wanted to speak to her more—Arya could tell from the anxious way she looked at her—but kept away. Arya knew she was trying to let her enjoy her dwindling time in the city, and Arya loved her for that.

But the Queensguard would not let her out of their sight.

It was humiliating enough to have been dragged back into the palace by three different men (one for each arm and a third who held her legs when she started kicking), but worst of all was that the stupid black-haired bastard was with them. And he'd made it his personal mission to ensure she did not escape again; even taking it upon himself to accompany her when she went to the palace's seagardens.

They were spectacular; a maze of marble and water pumped in from the ocean, running in a little spiral to the many fountains which spat it out. She had not been there when she was in the palace before, and could not stop from staring.

"D'you like things like this? I always thought you hated finery."

"This is not _finery_," Arya said to her irritating shadow, refusing to look at him. She would not tear her eyes from the beauty of the place. Water sang all around them, and a smaller recreation of the Titan of Braavos stood atop the tallest fountain, water spewing from his mouth. The water from the nightly rain fell from the trees above and onto the statue's head before sliding to his eyes and then down his cheeks. He looked as if he was weeping. "This is _beauty_. _History_. Something made to last forever. Not something meant to make a highborn lord feel rich and special for one lifetime. There's a _difference_."

"When did you get so philosophical, milady?" He said mockingly.

"The last you saw me I was one-and-ten. I've gotten teats since then, too, but you haven't said anything on _them_."

He was rendered silent. She allowed herself a smile at her triumph.

He continued to follow her for the next hour, even as she made a point of ignoring his attempts at conversation. When he trailed her to the huge porch that opened at the back of the palace just beyond the throne room, he was growing impatient.

"Have I wronged you in some way?" he demanded to her back as she stared out at the sprawling, spitting sea. _Knighthood has made him quite entitled._ The ocean was a gorgeous crystalline green today, and the sun was white and hot amidst a cloudless blue sky. The days after a rainstorm were always the loveliest in Braavos, especially with the air still heavy. The perfect day for swimming.

"Apart from threatening to let the knights raid my friend's tavern? No, Not at all."

"You know I wouldn't've."

"When I was a child I thought you would stay with me, because you said we were friends. You surprised me then, too. So, no, _Ser Waters_. I _don't_ know." She kept her eyes firmly trained on the water, watching as the white crests of the waves made shapes, colliding with each other and changing. From up on the porch, she could see everything as if she were a hawk.

"That was six years ago. I told you before, I became a knight to"—

"Be my equal? Well, now you've made that impossible."

She heard him physically swallow, and realised from the noise that he was standing directly behind her. If she even straightened her back, she'd be touching him.

The gulls cried over them. "Step away from me, _Ser Waters_," she said coldly, using the title as a jape the same way he had used to with 'milady'. "I could cut your throat in the blink of an eye."

"You've no sword."

"And that's meant to stop me?" she countered. "_You've_ still got one, and that sword could be mine in a moment. I said, _step away_."

She heard him snort, but his presence slid away from her. "Only two days with your highborn kind and you're already giving orders again."

"That wasn't an order. That was a _warning_."

"And just where the hell have you _been_ to be telling your friends you want to _cut their throats_? Where'd you even learn that, if you're telling the truth? Lord Vicenzo said you were a famous duellist here"—

"I'm the best," she corrected, finally flipping to look at him, hoping her eyes could convey the verity of her statement as well as her offense at his disbelief. She had been quite good when they were children—better than him, in fact. Arya wondered if perhaps _he_ was the one who was truly forgetting things.

She tried to ignore his face, his handsome face, when she schooled her own into a look of utmost dignity. "I'm the _best_ in the city. No one, man or woman, has _ever_ beaten me. And just so you know—I threatened you because we _aren't_ friends."

She began to stomp away from him, her view of the sea forgotten. She heard the irritating clamour of his armour as he followed.

"You can't just _leave_. The Queensguard has orders from Her _Grace_, Queen Daenerys, to"—

"Then I will have _another_ knight follow me around," she hissed, her hair flying in a circle as she turned on him. He nearly ran into her, his eyes startled as he clumsily came to a halt. He may have been a giant compared to her, but she was still much, _much_ quicker. "But not _you_."

"Arya"—

"_Lady Stark_," she snapped, feeling her lips form a sneer. "_You_ wanted me to have that name again. Now you'll use it. If you call me _Arya_"—

"Threats again? What, going to sic someone on me?"

"No. I'll cut your tongue out _myself_."

He raised his eyebrows, but she was already storming off, not letting him have the last word.

Jon Connington, one of the older knights of the Queensguard, watched her next. He seemed thoroughly displeased by the job—muttering that 'Waters' was better suited to guarding her and that he needed to be with the prince—but he was still an improvement to Gendry. _He_, at least, wasn't always trying to make her _talk_.

Nevertheless, she saw the stupid bastard at supper. She wanted to sit far, far away from him, but doing so would undoubtedly hurt Sansa, so she was forced to take the place next to her sister.

"Have you enjoyed your last day in Braavos, _Cata_—ah, Lady Stark?" The Sealord said, gesturing towards her with his wine goblet. Some of it spilled onto the fine carpet as he did.

Arya smiled sadly. "Yes, my lord. I loved Braavos dearly. I will be grieved to leave it."

"And what do you like best about our fair city?"

Arya could have named a million things. The hilarious and talented mummers. The noisy market full of exotic furs and silks and pets, tapestries hung all around and monkeys squealing in wooden cages. The sea, always so beautiful and clean. The food—clams and lobster and shrimp—cooked and sprinkled with Braavosi spices. The unspeakably beautiful temples, gleaming white in the Eastern sun with their filigree columns and magnificent domes. The ivy that hung everywhere, making the city so terribly _alive_. The canals, whistling to her in the night. The ostentatious bravos with their slashed sleeves and quiet leather boots and encrusted rapiers. The beautiful and exotic courtesans, sailing by in their barges and watching her from behind their lacy fans. The Happy Port, where she had made so many wonderful memories over ale as she and Lanna pressed their heads together and laughed.

"There is nothing I do not love," Arya said weakly, her eyes on her food—her delicious Braavosi seafood. Probably the last she would ever have. "I am enchanted by the city, body and soul."

The Sealord chuckled at that. "Many are. How long have you been here, dear girl? It was not until two years back that I first heard of _Cata di Canale_, the deadly beauty of Braavos."

Arya did not flush at the compliment, though she noticed Sansa's smile in the corner of her eye. She was no stranger to the flatteries of men, and she was well aware of the fact that much of her fame in Braavos had come from the probably-exaggerated notion that she was some exotic beauty. "I have lived here for six years, my lord. And I am no beauty."

The Sealord chuckled at that. "You _are_, and an exceptional one at that. I'd be fortunate to have you as my Sealady." He flashed her a strong, handsome smile, to which she finally flushed. Braavosi men were certainly bold in their flirtations, that much could never be contested. "And...how old are you now?"

"Seven-and-ten," she said, ignoring the many scandalised looks around her as the Westerosi courtiers stared at her, the runaway she-wolf of Winterfell who abandoned her family to live as a duellist in Essos before she was even a woman. _"Senata," _she repeated in Braavosi.

Lord Vicenzo regarded her with a look of utmost respect. "Alone for so long? And when so young? You are a treasure indeed. Braavos will weep to have lost you, _Cata_."

"Her name is Lady Stark," Daenerys said coldly, turning her queer, lilac eyes on the Sealord. "Not _Cata of the Canals_."

**Cat**_ of the Canals, _Arya thought, _or Cata di Canale, _finding herself feeling thoroughly entertained by the queen's so very _Western_ linguistic blunder. The Sealord and she exchanged a mirthful look, as if they had sensed the other's amusement.

"Of course, Your Grace," Vicenzo said, his voice as velvet as his doublet. "My apologies, _Lady Stark_."

Arya nodded at him in a way which was so stiff and curt that it was nearly mocking. Mocking the queen, anyhow. She had quickly taken a liking to the Sealord's merry and free-spirited demeanour. He was Braavos incarnate; following a basic moral code, but adventurous and flirtatious besides. He was everything she liked about the city abridged into a person, and she could not help but pay special attention to him during the meal, playing into his conversations and ignoring those going on around her. Arya had learned to take interest in speaking to others in Braavos when she would overhear stories from Tagganaro and Merry and the sailors on the docks. Where she used to only listen so she could relay new things to the Kindly Old Man, later she learned to give and take, to speak and be spoken to. It was enthralling; she wondered why little Arya Underfoot had never much liked speaking to others. Maybe it was because all the stuffy old nobles she had known never had anything half as interesting to say.

Sansa retired early yet again that evening, and Aegon joined her. Sansa kissed Arya's temple as she left, and they exchanged smiles. Arya spent another hour sipping wine and making japes with the Sealord, half of which were in Braavosi, which thoroughly annoyed the queen. Arya admittedly felt a touch of guilt, since it was possible for the queen to take it as a slight against herself that the Sealord was all but ignoring her in order to speak to a lesser princess. Daenerys stomped off to bed an hour after that, and Arya once again wondered why the queen seemed to dislike her so. If Daenerys had been Cersei, Arya would have understood; she was the farthest thing from a proper lady, and her existence spit in the face of everything that was expected of a princess. But Daenerys was a fiercely independent woman, who had proven herself in every conceivable way. Arya did not know why the young queen resented her so, when they had so much in common.

When she once again found herself nearly alone at the table, drinking wine, she noticed Gendry eyeing her. Not wishing to repeat her drunken behaviour the night before, Arya smiled at the Sealord and exited the hall, unthinkingly taking her cup with her. He did not object.

She wandered the palace for a bit before coming out on the roof, where the nighttime wind was briny and fierce; a fine evening in Braavos. She could hear distant music—harps and strings—and laughter, too. Everything about the night was perfect. It was the sort of evening when she and Lanna would sneak from the Port and wander the city, slipping in and out of pot shops and taverns, sucking on cigarros from Qohor that old toothless Lassano used to sell near the Moonsingers temple. She had met Forenzo on one night such as that when Lanna had gone off with a strapping sailor to kiss at the edge of the Drowned Town. Arya—then only Cat—had been walking alone, half-drunk, finding her way back to her apartment. Forenzo had happened upon her and she had drawn her rapier and knocked him to his back without thinking, but he'd only laughed at her from his place on the cold cobbles, dark eyes dancing, even as she threatened to kick him into the canal.

Sitting on the ledge, drinking her wine, Arya ignored it when, twenty or so minutes later, she heard another pair of feet coming towards her.

"You must really loathe me," Gendry sighed, sitting beside her. He was nearly soundless; he had removed his armour, then.

Arya did not look at him, instead choosing to stare up at the glittering stars, wondering if the sky would look the same in Westeros. She could not remember how it had been when she lived there, though now she could map the stars quite well; at least, she could map the ones she saw in the Braavosi sky. "I loathe anyone and anything which takes away my freedom. As you have done."

"I did not mean to do it," Gendry said at once. "I only wanted—I only wanted _you_. I wasn't thinking of the consequences"—

"Because you do not think at all. Because you are _stupid_."

"Because I love you and I want you _back_."

"Stop that," Arya snapped, still not looking at him. It was difficult not to, but when she looks at him, she loses her head. He is handsome—that is all Arya will allow herself to credit the strange feeling to. He is handsome and though Arya will not be cowed by one, she can still indeed by affected by a handsome man. Even if only with desire. "You don't even _know_ me anymore. You cannot _love_ me. So stop saying that."

"It's true. Would you prefer I lie?"

"In this instance? I suppose I would."

He was quiet for a minute. Then his hand was on her knee, squeezing it. She was already too drunk to swat him away, and she remembered her weak behaviour the night before and suddenly lamented her decision to drink the wine at all.

"You don't have to be a lady. You can be the Master-at-Arms at the Red Keep. You can be some _warlord_. You can be whatever you like."

"Except free." She tried to fight the tiny contentment growing in her breast, and the little whisper in her brain that said _he's trying_. "I think I shall spend a month in Winterfell before fleeing again. I cannot live long without being free."

"Lady Sansa will want you to marry. King Bran, too."

"_Sansa_ has sworn to respect my wishes. I am only returning to Winterfell for my family. As soon as is convenient, I will flee again."

"_Why_?"

Arya only shrugged. "It is my way."

"_Your_ way," Gendry said violently, taking both her wrists so quickly that she, wine-slowed as she was, could not predict or repel him. "Why do you _hate_ us all so much? Westeros is in _peace_. We only want to make _you_ happy. I have worked hard for _so long_ to make _you_ happy."

"You're a stupid knight with your head caught up in fantasies," Arya slurred. "Whether or not you took your _idiot_ vows for me, the point is that you've sworn your life away on some moronic idea of romance. I only seek _strong_ men. And you are clearly not one." Her statement was only half a lie. "Besides, you all thought I was dead."

Gendry used his grip on her wrists to yank her chest to his at once. If he had been any other man, Arya would have killed him instantly for his impertinence; but for some reason, she did not want to hurt Gendry, even when he was pulling her clothed breast against his chest. Even when his breath was too warm and too close. Even when he was holding her too tight and hurting her wrists.

"I risked my life to go to Winterfell because I thought _you_ were there. They were saying the Bastard of Bolton married you, and I'd heard the stories about him. I went days at a time with no food for _you_. I swore myself to the Queensguard for _your_ sister, Lady Sansa, because it was the closest I could get to _you_. Since I was four-and-ten, I've lived _every_ _moment_ for you. And you want to say I'm some coward who isn't _devoted_ enough? You want to say I don't _love_ you?"

"You left," she said, not strongly enough for her liking. "To become a knight."

"Because mere bastards don't _get_ to follow around highborn ladies. You were a child then, but you aren't anymore. You should know now that what I'm saying is true."

Arya frowned like she was one-and-ten again and he had just called her 'milady'. She hated being proved wrong almost as much as she did being mocked. It was stupid and childish and proud of her, but a part of her nonetheless. She could change it no more than she could the colour of the sky. "You cannot mean to make me believe that everything you've done has been for me alone. I was _one-and-ten_ last I saw you. I was almost a boy, not some comely princess for you to moon after."

"I admit that I wanted to be a knight on my own account," he conceded, his grip on her loosening. Arya's wine-sodden heart fluttered with pride at being proven at least mildly right. "I wanted to know when my next meal was, and have men call me 'Ser' and treat me with respect. I wanted to read and write and be someone people _cared_ about."

Arya licked her lips nervously, misliking the way his warm breath warped her judgment the way fire did metal. "I still haven't known you in six years. You cannot hope to assume you know _me_ after all this time."

"Oh, right; you flee to a new city, make new friends, and suddenly you're _unrecognisable_. You like to think you're a mystery, Arya Stark, and to most people I reckon you are. But I remember the skinny little girl dressed as a boy at Yoren's camp. I liked that girl, but I love her now. You _will_ come home, and you _will_ stop running from this."

Her laugh was harsh. "There's nothing _to_ run from, bastard. You can wear your white cloak and stomp around in armour and fill your head with songs about princesses and knights all you like. It won't make you more than what you are, and me less."

His mouth twitched in anger. "I could _kill_ you for all the pain you've caused me."

"And I could kill _you_ for the inconvenience _you've_ dealt me. I've killed other men for far less."

"So why don't you?" he asked her, putting his raging face close to hers. "They'd forgive you. You could say I tried to force myself on you. They may not believe you, but they'd forgive you and call me an oathbreaking raper long after I am dead and my body is thrown in a canal. The word of a princess is worth far more than a dead bastard's."

Arya licked her lips. Vaguely, her stomach swam with sickness. She did not know why.

"So if you hate me so much, why don't you just _do it_?"

Arya collected her brow and tried to yank her wrists away, but his grip was firm now, firmer than before.

"The way you're holding me, some would think you _do_ deserve to die."

"_Answer_ me."

Arya hated the way his eyes looked at her. No one was allowed to look at her like that. Not even the people she loved, like Sansa.

"We were friends once," she said finally, tonelessly. "For that reason I will not harm you unless you give me good cause. You have said you did not mean to hurt me with what you did, so you do not warrant killing." She watched the passion in his eyes flicker and die at her cold response. "Are you happy?" she asked, feeling triumphant again.

Gendry's hands fell from her wrists, but his eyes did not move. He looked thoroughly spurned, though not yet beaten, and Arya did not like that.

"Not even a bit," he said, his lip curling when he spoke so that she could see his strong teeth. He almost resembled a snarling wolf, Arya thought absently, her clouded mind focusing on his mouth. She had to force herself to look at his eyes again.

"And why not?"

"Because you're lying again."

Arya tried to summon a noise of indignity. "Listen, you stupid _sodding_ bastard"—

"No, Arya, _you_ listen. We aren't children anymore. I did not know that I loved you when I was a boy, but when I saw you at the parade—I _know_ it now. I loved you all along, though not always as a man loves a woman. I braved Northern winters to march on the Dreadfort with your sister, the Brotherhood, and the Free People because I'd heard them telling stories of the 'crying of Arya Stark'. I gave away a year of my life to lay siege to that castle, falling ill and nearly dying in the cold because I knew that if I could rescue you it wouldn't matter. I knew that if I saw you again, and took your arm and led you away from that place, I would've done what I had _needed_ to. But knowing I could've _tried_ to save you and _didn't_ would've killed me as easily as any sword or cold wind."

"And when you learned it wasn't me at the Dreadfort?" Arya asked him, her voice cruel and mocking. "How did that fit into your silly little maiden's fantasies of rescuing girls from towers?"

"I did not want to believe it," he said, surprising her with the hoarseness of his voice. "I came to the tower with Mya Stone and Greatjon and found a girl too old to be you and with eyes that were not yours. An imposter. We assumed you were dead after that."

"And dead I could have stayed, if you hadn't gone poking around in Braavos."

His laugh was mocking. "Pretend all you like, Arya Stark, but you love your brothers and sister and you're coming home for them. Moreover, you love me, too."

"I'm honestly beginning to think you are mad, bastard."

"Right; I'm only _imagining_ that you keep looking at my mouth."

Arya's eyes snapped from his lips to his face. "Wha"—she paused, embarrassed, but quickly collected herself. "Mayhaps I am. That doesn't mean I love you. I am no maid, bastard, and I do not have a maid's desire. I have a _woman's_ desires. That's got nothing to do with love."

His face fell when she said that. He sputtered for a moment, his eyes shining with hurt, and Arya felt her heart tighten; but still, she would not concede to him.

"Then you want me, at least."

Arya snorted. "I want the prince and the Sealord too. It hardly means I love them." It was not true; she liked the Sealord, but she felt no desire for him. And she would never feel anything for her sister's husband beyond a vague, sisterly fondness when he laughed at her dinner japes and her uncouth behaviour at breakfast. He was kind, and she liked him, but she would never, ever betray Sansa for him. Aegon meant about as much to her as a nice tune from a bard. Pleasant, but not remotely worth troubling oneself over. But it was important that Gendry did not feel special right now.

"I don't care. You want me, and you've admitted it. I know that you love me, and I could make you tell me so if you gave me the chance."

"And how would you ever make me say something I don't mean?" Arya said cruelly, finishing her wine goblet and throwing it over the side of the roof. It landed in the canal many moments later with a noisy splash.

She stiffened when she felt his hand circle around her waist and land on her hip.

"What are you _doing_, stupid?"

"What do you think? I'm not a stupid boy anymore, and you aren't a naive little girl. You already said you laid with a man before. You _know_ what I'm doing."

"I didn't _lie_ with him, I _fucked_ him," Arya replied, enjoying the angry look he got when she said it. "And if you think laying with me will get me to love you, you're even stupider than I thought."

"Lying," he said, pinching her hip before taking his arm back. Her spine was cold where he used to be. "_Always_ lying. Have you gotten good at that in Braavos? Lying? I know you've got good at killing, but it seems that isn't the only thing. Tell me, d'you think any of your Braavosi friends would love you if they knew who you _really_ are? If they knew about the red-and-white-haired man from Harrenhal, or how you selfishly fled here?"

Arya shifted with discomfort. She had not known Gendry knew about Jaqen. "Yes, they would. They love me for _me_, not my titles."

"As do I, yet you insist I am lying."

"Not lying. Only _fantasising_." She gave him her best patronising look. "If you're looking for a princess to fit into your story, I am not the one."

"Why do you keep saying that? Whatever I feel for you has nothing to do with our stations."

"You _just_ said you became a knight of the Queensguard for me. Our stations have _everything_ to do with it. They always will."

He swallowed. His eyes were so much like the sea, Arya thought. Water seemed to swim within them. Pretty. "I would love you if you were a lowborn thief; as you have sought to become in this place, it seems."

Arya laughed scornfully, turning away from him and staring out into the city. It was black save for the shining water of the canals and a handful of glowing lights, distant and bright. She could see the ocean, dancing coldly under the moon. "You know," she started, wine making her confident, "if you had not returned me to Sansa, I would have stayed a _lowborn thief_, and you could have married me as you liked." She heard him sputter, but ignored him and continued. "It is _you_ who has ruined everything. When I am eventually married to a lord and forever beyond you, I hope that you remember that."

"Sansa said you will not marry if"—

"If I don't wish it?" she laughed again. "Don't you see? It does not _matter_ what I wish. It never _has_ to you people. I must choose between marrying a lord or becoming a lonely, unimportant spinster. That is a lady's lot. And when I am forced to wed, or if I finally decide I am sick of being locked away in Winterfell, I will be my husband's slave. If you had let things be and not turned me over to my sister and the queen, I could have remained as Cata until my death. You have ruined this for me. I want you to know that. I want you to remember it until we are both dead."

Gendry choked on a breath. "I only wanted you back."

"And now I _am_ back. My congratulations, Ser Waters. You have done what you wanted to do."

"Arya," he gasps, and she turned and slapped him clean across the face before she even thought about it. He touched the place where she struck him and turned, his eyes so blue and so sad that she felt a stirring of guilt in her stomach.

"Lady Stark," she said coldly. "I am Lady Stark and you are a useless bastard. Remember that, because it is you who has made things this way."

"Ary—milady"—

"Oh, _shut_ up," she spat, getting to her feet. "You have ruined my life forever and all you can think to do is feel pity for yourself. I loved you once, I can admit it; I loved you when you were my friend and _trustworthy_. But now you are a selfish knight, as horrible as everyone else in Westeros. I _hate_ you, and I hate that awful country. And now I must spend my life in a place I hate. If you had truly loved me, you would have let me be happy."

"_Listen_, Arya"—

"I am going to Winterfell and you to King's Landing. You are a fool. An idiot fool who has ruined everything for me to be close to me, and we will not even be in the same city."

The moment she turned to walk away, Gendry had risen to his feet as well and caught her by the arm.

"You have had _five years_ to be free!" he shouted furiously, pulling her to him roughly. For the first time in her life, she was afraid of him. "You have ignored your family and everyone who threw their lives down for you because you are a _selfish_ thing, Arya Stark. I have had no freedom, never. I gave up my freedom for you."

"You could've left after you found out about the impostor," Arya said quietly. "You didn't have to join the Queensguard"—

"It didn't matter! I'm not _like_ you, I don't _have_ a family waiting for me. I had _you_. That's _it_."

Her stomach hurt with guilt. "_You_ left _me_."

"So I could become a knight and _stay_ with you! You say that I am the stupid one, but _you_ can't see what is right in front of you! What I have been trying to tell you this whole _damned_ time!"

Arya could not think of anything to say. So she was silent.

"It's _you and me_. You know that, don't you? It's been you and me ever since Yoren and Harrenhal. And even if that was years ago, it's _still_ you and me. _I'm_ the one who recognised you, not Sansa." Gendry's eyes held everything. "You don't belong here. You belong with your family, in Westeros. With _me_."

"If you're still trying to"—

She squealed a moment after he kissed her. His mouth was hard and warm, and her breast buzzed with shock. His beard tickled her face and then he was _moving_ his lips and Arya didn't know what was stopping her from killing him. He wound his fingers in her hair and she knew what he was doing now, and she knew that if a single thing she'd said to him that night was true, she would push him away and never speak to him again. But he was warm and he was _Gendry_ and she remembered that she used to wonder what kissing him would feel like when he slept with his arm around her all those years ago. He still smelled like musk.

The moment she decided to return his kiss was the moment he pulled away from her, their lips parting with a wet sound. His fingers were still in her hair.

"You and me," he whispered. "Gendry and Arya."

He disentangled himself from her while she stood there, blinking and dazed and dumb. As he walked away he called "Goodnight, Lady Stark!"

Arya stared out at the glowing, whispering city again. _Things would be easier here_, she thought, her brain coloured with Gendry's hot mouth and fevered shouts and tickling beard. It was hard to believe that he was the same person she'd known as a child. The clumsy smith's apprentice with the smooth boy's face and fumbling words, she recognised. This new man who looked like him and sounded like him but wore a Queensguards' cloak and wanted to _kiss_ her was practically a stranger.

But somehow, still the boy she'd befriended. Still so stupid and annoying, still so persistent and patronising with his smiles and his _miladys_. Arya watched a tiny flock of gulls sail over the city, crying noisily. _Everything would be so much easier here. _


End file.
